UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
There is a solitude of space
Contents
A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but the...
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UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
There is a solitude of space
Contents
A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared who that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself— Finite infinity. —EMII.V DICKINSON
is the sweatshirt the bracelet the purse orchids random acts of existtence is beyond the boundaries of any one life daddy-daughter dance gathering ghosts
is ghost the underwear headache felicity's shoe is a penny for your thoughts is rattled cell communication infected the spoon school peas
UNCORRECTED t-PROOf—NOT FOR SAIE HafflHCMifiji P y bfobss*. -
is pain's greater plan witch's nails pass to class baby doll photo in the wind the ring losing myself at disney world is the pinecone physics is the note
is un rattled gathering as a ghost am spirits am the end after the end epilogue acknowledgments About the Author Copyright About the Publisher
I'M DEAD. Not my-parents-told-me-to-be-home-by-twelve-andit's-two-o clock-now dead. Just dead. Literally.
I think. I can't fee! a body anymore. No hunger—not even a stomach. No fingers to wiggle, no feet to tap. So I pretty much have to assume that I'm . . . gone? No. I can't be gone, because I'm here. I won't say that I ve "passed on" or "passed away." I don't remember passing anything on the way here. For that matter, I don't remember dying, either. There's some saying about people "dying of curiosity." But I'm just curious about how I died.
Curious and . . . frightened. This place—wherever it is—surrounds me with vibrations. It j u s t . . . Is.
guess I have a soulbeat instead of a heartbeat. • ••
Loneliness and mystery hum through me. I feel like I
Maybe some time passes. .Maybe it doesn't. Hard to tell
just woke up in a dark room that has no clock. And even
in this place. But one way or the other, I discover the prob-
worse: no people. Where is everyone I knew when I was
lem with small, safe places.
alive? W h o are they, and do they miss me? What if I'm in
They're boring.
Hell? Maybe instead of fire and brimstone, hell is just the
I can't decide if my curiosity or my fear is the stronger
feeling of loneliness. I don't remember much about being
emotion. And I don't quite understand how I can be feeling
alive. I don't even remember my name. But loneliness being
both if I'm dead. They chase each other around, circulating
hell? That much I remember.
and percolating in me. Haunting me.
Ahead I see a bright pinprick of light. Can I reach it? It
How is that possible? I mean, if I'm the one who's dead,
seems my only chance for company. The prospect of reach-
how can something be haunting me? I'm supposed to be the
ing that light has replaced the throbbing ache of loneliness
one doing the haunting.
with a quivering hope. I attempt to move toward the light, but the space that is . . . Is... cloaks me in thick, clinging darkness. It sticks to me like a disgustingly damp pair of jeans two sizes too small.
Finally, curiosity chases fear to the perimeter. It's time to explore. Not that there's much to investigate. Just that bright pinprick of light.
I fight it out with Is, pushing against its boundaries, discov-
I push against Is and expand the bubble of my space
ering I can get the bubble around me to expand if I try hard
again. This time I discover I can intensify my soulbeat until
enough. But just as my space begins to grow, a cloud of lone-
it fills the bubble's space with energy. I ride the pulse of my
liness surrounds me. I discover there's a reason the dead are
soulbeat into the ever-expanding bubble as I approach the
stuffed into cozy coffins and small urns. This large empty
light.
space I've created makes me feel even more isolated. I stop pushing against the boundaries of Is, and it shrinks into a small bubble again. All the energy that is me beats comfortably against the boundaries. Now that I am dead, I
It is a ring glowing in the dark. It shines against the midnight black of space like an X-ray. An image of a bracelet. What is it doing here? As I get closer to the bracelet, I find myself floating
right through the glowing circle of light. Photons scatter
glow fills me with longing. A sense of missing something—
everywhere. I feel less lonely somehow with all this light
more intense chan any feeling I've yet had—pounds through
swirling around me.
me. And suddenly I know I wasn't meant to be here alone. I
And because I can see now that there are more pinpricks
of light.
know I expected to find Gabriel waiting for me. But who is Gabriel?
They are little stars amid my dark existence, scattered across space at great distances. A spoon. A pair of socks, hair clips, pieces of paper, peas, a cell phone, keys, flowers, a handbag, a doll's shoe. More and more. They are artifacts of a life. Mine? ! don't know why, but they seem to link me to all the people I sense I should be with. I find still more: beads, photographs, a ring, a baby's rattle, and—how odd—a pair of underwear. All these images are company at last. But I need them to be closer together so I can spend time with all of them at once. Is there a way to click and drag them onto a desktop-sized spacer No. Apparently Is hasn't picked up on the whole wireless concept yet, and I will have to go to the ends of the U niverse to find all my companions. I'd better start now if— My trip has already come to an abrupt halt. I've hit the next object. It's a sweatshirt, and I can't bear the idea of moving and leaving it behind. I know it should make me feel warm, but its stark white
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT f OR SALE
H«Mtfift!flg&£wbfeftfiH
Metal chairs scrape across linoleum, addingan unharmonious musical accompaniment to the voices. Flickering specks of me hover, dancing in the air, and then unite into something not quite solid yet more substantial than I have been. I have a misty almost-form. I'm back in the world.
the s w e a t s h i r t
In a classroom. An art classroom. I recognize myself, standing at a sink a few feet away. I'm trying to get red paint off my hands. I remember this moment: junior year, second-hour art class. A sense of joy at being back in the real world courses like blood through mv almost-being, but it's strangely mixed with anger: I know that I'm about to discover that the sweatshirt is missing. And then I know so much more. Suddenly I'm drown-
I'M NOT SURF. WHY this sweatshirt fascinates me so much.
ing in memories that take on half shape s. They fill me with
Maybe it's the missing smell. I sense that the most impor-
panic as I founder around in them.
tant thing about this sweatshirt is supposed to be its scent,
I know my name: Madison Stanton. I remember my
but there aren't any smells in //. I want to put the sweatshirt
mother, her deep red hair; my father, tall and playful, with a
on, but I've got no body here in Is, either.
baritone that rumbles comfortingly; mv house and its smell
I try to what it felt like to have a body and imagine mysel f pulling warm fabric over my h e a d . . . .
of eucalyptus; school; teachers; my best friend, Sandra; my older sister, Kristen; my pet cat. Cozy; and—Oh, God—
And then suddenly everything changes. Knowledge—
Gabriel. Gabriel whose sweatshirt I am about to lose. All
not just some strange half memory—rips through me,
these memories threaten to pull me under a tide of grief
scattering me across space and darkness, through nothing-
and loss.
ness and shadow. I am propelled toward harsh light. The
It is the sound of my own laughter that acts as a life
sound of voices swells as I come closer and closer to them.
jacket. I float up out of the memories to focus on this
moment, on myself standing at that sink. I'm laughing with
on the other side of the wall?
Sandra. I can't remember what about, though. I'm tempted to move closer. But first I need to go rescue the sweatshirt. It's about
I try again to reach Dana, to stop her from stealing the sweatshirt. No luck. The living Maddy pulls me up short once again, only this time I get too close to her. She exerts
to be stolen. And I know by whom. I left it on the back of a
some kind of magnetic pull on me. And then instantly I
chair—so I wouldn't get paint on it—over on the other side
became her.
of the partition that divides the room. If I can get to the
oge 17
sweatshirt before Dana does, mavbe I can keep her from stealing it. I try to move toward the partition but have trouble figuring out how to do it. I don't quite have a body, so the
T h e water suddenly gets too hot on my hands. "Aiya!" I shriek, reaching to adjust the temperature.
physics of movement as I'm used to it on Earth just isn't
Sandra turns the water off. Ever the conservationist.
happening. But I'm also not merely a collection of light par-
"You're not Lady Macbeth trying to wash bloody sins off
ticles the way I've gotten used to being back in Is. Great.
your hands, you know."
How many diflerent states of existence can there be?
So Sancra. Thirty seconds ago, we were laughing about
I have to figure out how to use some bizarre combina-
the way her calc teacher got a piece of toilet paper stuck in
tion of floating and running to move. Just as I reach the
the waist of her skirt, then came to class and taught half
partition, though, I bounce backward. Rubber-band style.
the hour without ever realizing it was there. Now Sandra's
The elastic that holds me to mv real self over at the sink has
making obscure references to Shakespearean tragedies.
stretched too thin. I go shooting backward almost all the
She handsme the roll of paper towels sitting on the coun-
way to the real me over at the sink, who's still busy laugh-
ter, flicking water in my face at the same time. "Thanks," I
ing. What's the matter with her? Or should 1 say "me"?
sav, rolling my eyes.
How am I supposed to refer to the living, breathing Maddy
"Sorry," she says, grinning.
Stanton? "Her" seems so not "me." And yet, she's not me.
We head back over to the table where we've left all our
She doesn't even seem to sense that I'm here. And can't I let
stuff. Time to put Gabe's sweatshirt back on. It smells won-
her know how clueless she's being about what Dana's doing
derful. Totally him. I've had it for two days. He left it at
8
9
my house on Sunday, and I've been making good use of it
get paint on it. What's a little paint, though, when the alter-
ever since. Yesterday he asked for it back. Uh-unh. No way.
native is no sweatshirt at all? I've moved on to playing Duck
He's not getting it back until it's so dirty it absolutely has
Duck Goose with the other tables.
to be washed. No use keeping it after it's lost the essential
No sweatshirt.
Essence of Gabriel. It's been a good few days. I'm thinking about raiding
There's only one explanation for what could have happened to it. Dana.
Gabe's dirty laundry when I have to give this sweatshirt back. But when Sandra and I return to the table, the sweat-
Suddenly I'm so angry that I'm afraid I might turn into Lady Macbeth with some bloody sins to wash off my hands after all.
shirt isn't there. My book bag is still sitting on the seat of the chair—exactly where I left it. The sweatshirt should be
Sandra sees how upset I am. She grabs me by the arm. "Hey, Maddv, it'll turn up."
on the back of the same chair. I glance quickly at the other
"Dana took it. I'm sure she did. I don't know whether
chairs around the table, but it's not sitting on the back of
to be mad that she's trying to mess with me and Gabe, or
any of them, either.
creeped out by what she might be planning to do with it."
"What's wrong?" Sandra asks as I start doing a weird version of Duck Duck Goose with all the chairs, sliding each out and checking to see if the sweatshirt has somehow migrated onto its seat. "Gabe's sweatshirt is missing," I tell her. I'm not holding out a lot of hope that she's going to sympathize with the
"What do you mean, 'do with it'? What can she do with
k?" I notice that Sandra isn't trying to reassure me that Dana hasn't taken it. "What if she's going to sleep in it or something?!" "You mean like you do?"
true extent of this tragedy. She's been teasing me for the
Such. A. Cheap. Shot. "He's my boyfriend," I say defen-
past two days about how my obsession with the sweatshirt
sively. I can't even begin to express how horrified I am by
is my subconscious attempt to have sex with Gabe.
the idea of Gabe's ex sleeping in his sweatshirt. "She can't
"It can't be missing," she says matter-of-factly. "It was on the back of the chair when we went to wash our hands." I'm cursing myself. I took off the sweatshirt so I wouldn't in
get over the fact that they've broken up, and I'm sick of it." Sandra starts rubbing my arm. "Hey, calm down. She's not going to sleep in it. She's over Gabe."
n
Hardly. She's been a major pain ever since he dumped her and started dating me.
"But where? That means I can find it." Sandra shakes her head at me. "Don't give her the sat-
Sandra has known me since we were live. She can see
isfaction. She's watching you right now to see what you're
what I'm thinking. That's why it's worth having a best
going to do. Come back after school or something and ask
friend. Saves on words. "Seriously," she tells me, "this thing
Mrs. Sinclair if you can look around for it then."
between the two of you, it's about you and her, not about
The bell rings, and Sandra drags me toward the door.
Gabe. She doesn't want him back. She just wants to mess with you. It gives her satisfaction to make you miserable,
—•—
because you made her miserable when you started dating
Suddenly I am ripped away from myself, thrown back into
him."
the abyss . . . formless again, isolated in a place that just Is.
I give her my best skeptical look.
There's the sweatshirt, glowing mockingly at me, remind-
She steps back, flicks her brown curly hair over her
ing me it's no substitute for what's really missing. I'd rather
shoulder. This is a sign she means serious business. The
have Sandra and Gabe back.
hands even go on her hips. She's got one of those fragile, thin builds (and. yes, I've been jealous of that ever since we were about ten and the differences in our body types became clear to me), but she can generate presence when she wants to be taken seriously. Like now. "What better way lo upset you than to take something of Gabe's from you? Then she gets to watch you go off." Sandra nods her head over toward where Dana is standing with some other girls. Dana's smirking in a way that—if I'm honest—actually scares me. How can someone have the look of a jack-o'-lantern and a model all at oncer "Look at her," Sandra says. "She doesn't have the sweatshirt, so she obviously hid it somewhere around here."
li
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE tfaD&1 Colli ai.Publi.jhs.rj
parts, but not all, of my past. And, as I float here aimlessly in Is, I'm already forgetting more about my life. Now. 1 want to go back to my life again. Now. I propel myself through the vacuum of Is, looking for something else that will take me home. T h e closest item to me is the bracelet, so I move straight toward it.
the b r a c e l e t
There it is. A circle of light. A phantom wrist longs to feel that bracelet encircling it, longs for the soft tinkling of silver against silver, for the cool brush of chain link against
skin. Knowledge again tears through me. This time, as I scatter through space and darkness, I am sucked toward wind and heat, toward ticklish grass. I am directly under a tree I have climbed manv times THOSE OBJECTS OF LIGHT . . . I know row what they all are:
with Sandra. I look up into the branches above me, and
items I lost during my lifetime. They have found their way
there she is. An eight-year-old Sandra. Curly dark pigtails
here, to return me to my own life, and—ohmygod—do I
ride behind her in the breeze as she maneuvers her way up
ever want to go back.
the tree limbs. And that little girl next to her . . . is me.
It's strange that back in the art room when I became the
Sort of. I recognize my face and her crooked teeth from
living me, she never seemed to realize there was . . . well,
old photos. But it's hard to believe that I ever moved so
another me—a dead one—hanging around somewhere.
quickly, or with such freedom. I'm bossing Sandra around,
But in a way it was also nice she didn't notice me. When I
telling her to climb one branch higher. Nothing but this
became her, it meant I was truly . . . alive.
moment seems to exist to that eight-year-old me. She's cast
I want that experience again. I want to be with the peo-
an almost magic spell of oblivion around the whole tree.
ple I loved. To see the things that were part of my everyday
As the younger me reaches for a higher branch, sun-
life. To find out more about who I was. I can remember
light glints off a bracelet dangling from my wrist. The way
H
n
the sun enchants the charms on that bracelet is fascinating.
us. I strain against it like a dog trying to lengthen its leash
Tinker Bell, a kitty cat, a ladybug, a silver star . . .
enough to reach a taunting squirrel.
I can remember the bracelet now. It was a gift from my
No luck. I'm only allowed any kind of freedom of move-
mother for my eighth birthday, and I lost it one day while
ment if I stay close enough to her to see and hear her. She
playing . . . here in Sandra's backyard.
won't even let me get far enough away to help her best
I'm figuring out how this whole object-to-life business
friend.
seems to be working: see the object I lost in life, imagine
Once again, the Universe's rules for this game suck.
using it, go back to the moment I lost it. I just have to say,
Just as I realize this, the tree branch cracks under the
this seems like a particularly cruel joke. I mean, why all
combined weight of two eight-year-olds. We crash through
the focus on loss? Isn't losing my life enough? Why is my
branches, screaming as we fall. I land flat on my stomach.
only option for returning to Earth centered on losing some-
Despite all the years that have passed since this moment,
thing?
despite even death, I can remember the feel of the air being
Aa I watch eicht-ycar-old Sandra and mywlf, I remem-
forced from my lungs as I struggle co breathe.
ber the temperature—mild with a forceful wind trying to
I can't help running back to try to help these two lit-
drive spring into our midst. Earthy spring scents float in my
tle girls somehow, but I get too close to the living me. She
memory, too, mingling with the feel of rough bark against
sucks me i n . . . .
my hands. Sandra and I are daring each other to move as far as we can toward the end of a branch. We are about to—
age 8
Fall. And Sandra is about to break her arm. I have to do something to stop this from happening. I need to get Sandra's father. I attempt that strange floating and running movement
My jaws have slammed together with a force that leaves my head spinning. Blood is warming my mouth as it oozes from a cut, but it takes me a moment to realize this because I still can't breathe.
to get to the house, but, just like the last time I tried it, I
Sandra is deathly silent. Is she dead?
discover I'm not allowed to travel far from the living me. I
Now that I can breathe, I scream hysterically.
try to stretch the thread of energy that connects the two of
The back door opens, and Sandra's mother comes
running. She stumbles over to Sandra. She falls down next
Sandra is going to be okay, it's fine with me if Mrs. Simpson
to her and sobs. "What have you done to her? What have
dies of an asthma attack. W e l l . . . unless Sandra thinks it's
you done to her?"
my fault her mom dies.
I try to take in enough air to speak and manage to squeak out, "We fell from the tree. I didn't mean to hurt her." Mrs. Simpson is breathing all funny. I've never heard
I want my mom. She can make things better. She doesn't have asthma, and she doesn't yell the way Sandra's mom does.
anyone breathe like that. What if she and Sandra both die?
I want my mom now.
It will be my fault.
Where is my magic charm bracelet? I reach for it on my
Mr. Simpson comes running up. He tries to get to Sandra, but Mrs. Simpson just keeps crying and breathing all funny and won't let him touch either of them. I want to help him pull Mrs. Simpson away. What if Sandra's dying and Mrs. Simpson won't let us help her? "You must calm down, Genevieve," Mr. Simpson keeps telling her. "You'll have an asthma attack." Will an asthma attack kill Mrs. Simpson? He's shaking her and pulling her away from Sandra all
wrist, but it's not there. Where is it? Did all this bad stuff happen because I lost it? I want to cry but don't dare. "Genevieve," Mr. Simpson says, "you have to go to the house and call 911." "I thought you said she'd be okay," she protests. Mr. Simpson whips around on her in anger. 'Dammit, just go call 911," he growls. I want to cheer. "I can't b-b-breathe," Mrs. Simpson says, gasping.
at once. There's finally a space big enough between Mrs.
Mr. Simpson closes his eyes. He looks just like Mom
Simpson and Sandra for him to get into. He kneels by San-
when she's counting to ten as she's ordering me to go to my
dra, leans over her, touches her neck, and listens to her
room to "think about what you've done." When Mr. Simp-
breathing. He makes a strange sound. I think he might be
son opens his eyes, he touches Sandra's cheek lightly—like
choking on relief. "Sandra'll be fine, but you have to calm
my dad touches mine at bedtime. Then he stands up and
down, Genevieve." I'm relieved that Sandra is going to be all right. If Mr. Simpson says she's okay, then she is. I like Mr. Simpson. I just don't like Mrs. Simpson. And now that I know 13
rubs Mrs. Simpson's arms to calm her. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and firm. "She'll probably be fine, Genevieve, but we can't risk moving her ourselves. Go call. Now." Mrs. Simpson stumbles away. I crawl around, looking 19
for the bracelet. Now that she's gone, I let the tears stream
"Nothing," I say, even though it's not true.
down my face, but I try to hide them from Mr. Simpson. He turns to me and sees the tears. "Are you all right, Maddyr" he asks me. "Do you hurt anywhere?"
Mrs. Simpson returns to Sandra's side, crying. And when Sandra's eyes flutter open, Mrs. Simpson squeals in delight. I feel the same way, but mv glee has to flutter
Everywhere, I want to say, but mostly just in my hart
around inside where it can't be seen or heard. I don't dare
Instead, 1 say. "I'm okay," but not because 1 am. I'm terri-
draw Mr. and Mrs, Simpson's attention away from Sandra.
fied, but I can't admit it because I can tell Mr. Simpson isn't
She's alive. And groaning. In pain.
reallv thinking about me, and I don't want him to have to.
Time passes, and flashing lights speed up the road
"So is Sandra, I think," he tells me reassuringly. "There's
toward the house. I recognize my mother's car right behind
a giant goose egg on the side of her head. I think she's just
them. She stays out of the paramedics' way, trailing behind
been knocked unconscious. Happened to me once when I
them to the backyard, looking for me. She sees me, runs
was a kid. Looks like her arm might be broken, too, but
toward me, pulls me away from all the action, kneels down
1 think she'll be okav." He starts feeling gently along her
in front of me and wraps me in her arms.
other limbs. Then he calls into the house, as if he's surprised to have thought about it, "Genevieve, call Maddy's
My mom. She smells like apples: sharp, sweet, and natural. "Are you all right, sweet pea?" she asks.
mom. She'll have to come pick her up. We can't leave her here by herself while we're off at the hospital." Mommy. She'll make everything okay again. I know she
will.
Now that she's here, the tears turn to sobs. I don't have to hold anything back. But the words I'm trying to say can't be understood, so Mom just keeps reassuring me, "Sandra's okay. She was just knocked unconscious."
Mrs. Simpson has just started out the door. She gives me a mean look, and the screen door slams shut as she moves
Finally I am able to get out the words clearly, "I can't find my chann bracelet."
back into the house. I don't quite understand why she has never liked me.
She squeezes me tighter. "Shh," she whispers into my ear. "As soon as they've all left with Sandra, we'll look for
Mr. Simpson coos gently to his daughter, sparing me a glance as I begin turning in circles. "What are you looking for, Maddyr" he asks me.
it." If she's going to help me look for it, I know we'll lind it. She always makes everything all right.
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I swallow my sobs and try to breathe deeply. T h e paramedics carry Sandra off on a stretcher, and Mom takes me by the hand. We walk in circles around the tree Sandra and I were climbing u n t i l . . . finally . . . there it is . . . broken but shining against the grass. Mom picks it up and lovingly begins to drape it over my wrist. T h e second its cool metal touches my skin—
t h e purse
• I am gone. Ripped from myself. Thrown back into the abyss . . . formless again, wandering around in a place that just Is. I want my mom back. I want to see her again. My longing to touch her, to be with her, is even greater than the ache I was left with after my first trip back to life. T H E FEEL OK MY MOM'S ARMS around me has awakened a
hunger beyond any I've ever experienced. I wade back through Is, looking for the bracelet. I want to return to that scene in Sandra's backyard. I want to feel my mother's arms around me again—even if it means watching Sandra fall all over again. I refmd each of the objects I have encountered before—all except for the bracelet. It's gone. Strange. The sweatshirt is still here. The bracelet isn't. Loss again. I want to scream, but . . . I don't have a voice.
..'
Is there any other object here that might lead me to rnv mother? I return to them one at a time, looking for a clue
oge W
about which will take me where I want to go, but I can't remember where I lost these various scraps of existence.
When a girl has to pee, she reallv has to pee. I slam the
There are the keys, but I don't think they will take me to
door of the stall behind me and dump my purse—unusually
her. The cell phone's in the next pocket of space. No, that's
heavy today with all the extra change in it—on top of the
not a gateway to my mother, either.
roll of toilet paper.
Then there's the purse. It hums and glows more intensely than the other objects do when I get close to it. Is it connected to my mother? I don't think so, but I
It falls off. Gross. W h o knows what this floor has had on it? Taking a pee will just have to wait until I pick it up. W h y was I stupid enough to bring it with me?
can't help feeling drawn in by the intensity of the object's
I'm just putting it back when voices bounce off the tiles
presence. I want the answers it seems to be offering. .Maybe
of the bathroom wall. I recognize Tammy Havers's voice.
those answers will ultimately lead me back to my m o t h e r . . .
"Anyone in here?" she asks someone.
and everything else I want to reach. I muster every phan-
"I don't think so," comes the reply.
tom feeling11 can to remember carrying a purse. And once
So I'm just unbuckling my belt when Tammy demands
again those powerful feelings rip through me. I am pro-
payment from the mystery voice. I realize what's happening
pelled toward something . .. unpleasant.
on the other side of the stall door: Tammy is selling drugs.
I'm in an uncomfortable, stuffy environment, surrounded by the scent of urine. I realize I am in a bathroom stall at Overton High School. An alive and seventeen-yearold me is entering through the bathroom door, getting closer to me, and I am . . . sucked in.
Damn. Peeing is going to have to wait. I don't dare make any noise right now. Apparently not making any noise is one of those "easier said than done" things. Especially if you're stupid enough to set your favorite purse on top of a roll of toilet paper for a second time and you then back into it. And if said purse has about three dollars in coins in it because you're stupid enough to have lost your lunch debit c a r d . . . well, it hits the
;s
floor with a pretty loud thud. The kind of thud that alerts the drug dealer there's someone else in the bathroom. Tammy wouldn't kick in the stall door or anything, would she? And why exactly couldn't this have happened—if it had to happen at all—after I'd already gone pee? I'm dying here. Tammy pushes on the stall door and finds it latched. "Come out of there," she demands. "Uh, no, thanks," I say. Fortunately, she doesn't try to force it open. Unfortunately, she crawls under the partition on the left, knocking my purse into the next stall.
And wasting time thinking about all this has now left me completely at Tammy's mercy, because there she is. Standing in the stall with me. Glaring at me. She unlatches the door, grabs me by the hair, and yanks me out of the stall. I want to scream in pain. It really hurts. But I'm too afraid to do anything more than gasp. So much for old friendship protecting me from Tammy's wrath. "What are you doing in here, Stanto n?" She vanks on my hair for emphasis. If she yanks on it again, I swear she'll unleash a puddle of pee right beneath us. "I asked you a question," Tammy says. "What are you doing in here?"
If I'd had any brains, I'd have realized sooner that my
Duh. Going to the bathroom, perhaps? But I don't
incredibly heavy-with-change purse would make a good
exactly want to make Tammy any angrier than already she
weapon. I'd have already picked it up and smacked her on
is, so I try the less sarcastic approach. "I'm just going to the
the head with it, hopefully knocking her unconscious. Now
bathroom."
it's too far away for me to reach. I guess it doesn't matter anyway. The truth is I wouldn't
"Did you hear anything?" "Hear what?"
have actually hurt Tammy. I mean, she and I were friends
Tammy yanks again. Is she waiting for me to confess?
until eighth grade. And not only wouldn't I go whacking
Bravado might be my only way out. "Why are you trying
her over the head, but I also can't believe she'd truly hurt
to torture me?" I ask, reminding myself that I've known
me, either.
Tammy since we were in preschool.
Well, other than torturing me by sending me to another
We were never great friends when we were younger, but
bathroom to pee. Ohmygod, would I even make it at this
we always got along. Then in fourth grade, neither of us had
point?
any really close friends in our class, so we ended up eating
lunch together every day. We even shared Twinkies.
As she yanks even harder, I opt for the remember-when-
She only started getting messed up when we were in
we-were-friends approach. "Okay. Jesus. Let go of my hair.
middle school. Something went down at home, and she
I did hear what was happening in here, but it's not like I'm
started getting tougher and tougher. I was sad when it hap-
gonna tell anyone. Get real. We've known each other for
pened. I liked her. But she wouldn't talk to me about what
ages, Tammy. It's not as if I'm going: to rat on someone I
was £^>ing on.
used to share Twinkies with at lunch."
Then, in eighth grade, after the whole Ouija board
"You'd better not," Tammy says. She gives my hair a
thing that happened at a sleepover, she stopped talking
threatening reminder of her willingness to hurt me. "'Cause
to me altogether. Thought I was making fun of her. But I
if I get ratted on, I'm gonna know exactly who to blame."
swear I wasn't. By the end of eighth grade, she started getting downright scary. Once I even saw her beat the crap out of some kid during lunch. I wasn't exactly valiant or anything. No saving the kid, jumping in front of her with fists at the ready. No.
Adults are always wanting you to tell in a situation like this. We can protect you. It's for tbe good of everyone, Blab, Nab, blab. Right. Adults are so stupid. I can't figure out how they have managed to live long enough to survive high school.
I was one of the cowards watching the whole thing. Besides,
"I'm not going to say anything," I tell Tammy. I hope I
you couldn't really get in between the two girls. Even then,
sound firm, disgusted at the mere possibility. But I hear a
Tammy liked grabbing the hair of her opponent. When the
squeak in my voice. She finally lets go of my hair, pushing
teachers came to break up the fight, Tammy almost ripped
me away from her at the same time. "Get out of here."
the other kid's scalp right off her head while the adults were
"Umm . . . could I, like, just get my money first?"
trying to separate the two of them.
She freezes me with this what-kind-of-an-idiot-nrr-you
Now, I realize, is not the time to be remembering that
stare.
Jenny Wilson almost became a scalpless wonder. Think
Okay, then. Guess I'll just borrow money from Sandra
Twinkies, I tell myself. The image of a ten-year-old Tammy
for lunch. I want to kick myself. I wouldn't need to bor-
stuffing yellow cream-filled pastries in her mouth does help
row money from my best friend if I'd just admitted to my
me face off against her. Even if the hair-grip is still killing
mother that I'd lost the lunch card. She'd have gotten me
me.
a new one. But I didn't want to listen to her harping about >9
how I can never hold on to a n y t h i n g . . . which is irritatingly
her when she left the scene where I saw her. But the bag and
true, I realize, as I practically run the rest of the way from
the s w e a t s h i r t . . . I didn't find either of those before I left
the bathroom. And that's when . . .
the scene. Who knows what ever happened to them? But somehow I never got them back, and so here they are in Is,
// embraces me again.
still haunting me.
I float for a moment, just remembering what it was like
An idea hums through me: Perhaps if I don't find the
to be Maddy Stanton. It seems that I have found the corner
object, I can return to the moment I lost it, but if I do find
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but I am still trying to find all the
it, then I can't get back to that time.
edges. My life is lying in a heap of memories piled on top of
Control.
one another, small clips of partial images carved into funny
I might have some control over what moments in my
shapes. They aren't even sorted yet. Which piece do I even
life I can return to. I just have to keep myself from finding
start trying to build from?
something.
Of c o u r s e . . . The one with the Grim Reaper on it. T h e one that tells me how I died. But I don't know where it is yet. I might have to turn over a lot of pieces before I'm likely to even catch a fragment of the Reaper's image. It's time to start now. I find the coach. If that and the sweatshirt are still here in Is, why can't I find the charm bracelet? I wade off in search of the bracelet once again. Still gone.
But wait. I don't know for certain this is how it works.... Or even if I can change what happens when I return to a moment. I realize there's a way to find out. I wade my way back to the purse and imagine myself holding it again. The stuffiness of an enclosed bathroom, the scent of urine, myself walking toward me . . . it's all there again. I embrace myself, and we join fluidly....
What is the difference between the charm bracelet and the handbag? Between the sweatshirt and the bag?
age 17
And then I know. T h e real me, the alive me . . . she took the bracelet with 13
I so have to pee. !l
I set mv coach on top of the roll of toilet paper, but it
Someone pushes on the stall door. Tammy, I'm pretty
falls off. Disgusting. This floor could have had—well, who
sure, because now she's also demanding that I come out of
knows what—on it. I'm bending over to pick up the purse
there.
when I realize I'm feeling that funny thing again. It's hap-
"Uh, no, thanks," I say. That creepy shivery feeling
pened to me a couple times before. I can't explain the feeling.
comes over me again. Must be because Tammy is crawling
It's like I'm being spied on. It's creepy. I tried to explain it
under the stall now. I look around for my purse. As heavy as
to my mom once, and she told me she'd had creepy feelings
it is, it might even make a good weapon at the moment.
like that before, too. Said she'd felt "someone walking over
I can't find it. W h o knows where it landed?
her grave." Like that makes sense?
Then Tammy is there, standing in front of me with this
Unfortunately, at the moment, it does.
totally killer glare.
Shake it off, I tell myself.
She opens the stall door, grabs a handful of my hair,
I set the bag back on the roll of toilet paper and look
and tugs me out. This is way too much. That creepy feeling
around, like I'm expecting to see a ghost here or something.
invading me, Tammy abusing me, majorly having to pee,
How stupid is that?
and being interrupted... how much does a girl have to put
"Anyone in here?" someone says through the bathroom
up with?
door. I know that voice. It belongs to Tammy Havers. "I don't think so," someone replies.
"What are vou doing in here, Stanton?" She yanks on my hair again for emphasis.
Tammy demands payment. Great. A drug deal. I pause in unbuckling my b e l t . . . I so have to pee, but self-preservation? Yeah. Might be more
It's like my hair is a pull-string attached to my bladder. If Tammy pulls on it again, I'll think she'll unleash a tidal wave of pee.
important at the moment. I think I'll just try not to make any s o u n d . . . .
"I asked you a question," Tammv says. "What are you doing in here?"
Thunk.
"What do you think I'm doing?" I ask, my anger over-
My bag. The one with about three dollars in change in
flowing. "I'm taking a pee. Or at least I was trying to."
it. Why did I have to lose my lunch debit card?
"Did y°u hear anything?" She starts to pull on my hair again.
I really have to pee.
«
33
"Don't!" I tell her. "Of course I heard you. But it's not
Then how did I get back to Is from the moments when I
like I'm gonna tell anvone about it. Get real. We've known
didn't find the objects? I reflect on the sweatshirt incident,
each other for ages, Tammy. And even if I do think it's kind
then try to compare it to the first handbag one. But I can't.
of stupid to be taking drugs, and even stupider to be deal-
In fact, I can't recall anything that happened the first
ing them here at school—like, have you heard the word
time I went into that bathroom. T h e second time to that
expulsion?—I'm hardly going to rat on someone I used to
bathroom, touching that handbag and getting launched
share Twinkies with at lunch."
back to Is. But my second experience with that moment has
She seems to give this some thought. "You'd better not. 'Cause if I get ratted on, I'm gonna know who to blame." "I'm not going to say anything. Trust me." Thank God I don't sound like I'm begging.
wiped out the first. It has become the new realit/ of my life. Is seems to work on a different plane of reality, though, because I can remember the decision that I made to go back
"Get out of here," Tammy says.
and change that scene. So while I know there waj a time
She lets go of my hair. I dash into the stall.
when I didn't find the handbag, that time has disappeared
"What are you doing?" Tammv asks in disbelief as I
forever.
begin searching under the partitions between the stalls.
In a wav, this is pretty cool. It means I can make some
"Looking for my stusid money." I find it just inside the
conscious choices about how to change my life. But—
adjoining stall. I must have hit it pretty hard with my elbow
changing my life so I find an object just seems to make it
when I knocked it off the roll of toilet paper.
impossible for me to go back to that moment. Why would I
"Just get the hell out of here," Tammy says. "On my way," I say. I grab the handbag—
• Back in //, I search, propelling myself through miles of space, looking for the handbag. It's gone. Just like the bracelet. The moment I touched each, I was ripped away from life and returned to //. M
want to do that: Will it work the other way around? Can I keep myself fiuiu linduiu buiiieiliiuu? Probably . . . not. Wouldn't I have to know—when I was looking for it— that I didn't actually want to find the object? Since I can't remember where the object will take me (or why and how I lost it) until I've used it to go back to life, that would mean 35
I'd have to find the object, get sent back to Is, and realize I wish I'd never found the objectBy then, the object would already be gone from Is.
Crap.
visit to that moment. Even being back here in // feels different than it did before. I'm a whole different dead person than I was. It's hard to describe what all this has done to me, but
T h e Universe isn't nearly as generous as I thought it was.
it's as if I were listening to a song and when I got back it was playing in a different key. Everything jumped up a half
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be messing around with my original life that way. I can't quite explain what's happened now that I have changed the outcome in finding my handbag, but something's different. About me. About my life.
note . . . or something like that. Who knows what I could be messing with going around and changing the way things happened in life? Suppose I could keep myself from dying? But I can't possibly know which of these moments can lead to that outcome. At least at this poir.i.
About who I am. And I'm not sure I like it.
And what if I end up making myself die sooner?
When I went back and made myself find that purse, I
Making decisions in death doesn't seem to be any easier
somehow became a new person. Someone who—first of
than making them in life: You never know what the out-
all—could sense that I was there. That must have been
come is going to be one way or the other.
what the creepy feeling was. My intention to change what happened in that moment somehow changed everything. I knew I was there. Well, kind of, anyway. Enough to make the moment f e e l . . . spooky. But that's not all. Other things changed, too. I just don't know what they are. If I never found my coach in the first version of my life, did I go without lunch that day? Did I borrow money from someone else so I could eat? I have no way of knowing, but whatever happened in that first version created a different life than did the results of my second 16
37
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF— NOI FOR SALE HfflRetfo.UJ.QS P.W &.'«!?£«
Age 16 I am on my knees in the grass, dark night surrounding me. Gabriel is standing next to me, bent over at the waist, his hand firmly gripping my upper arm.
orchids
"I ry breathing deeply," Gabriel urges me. It sounds like a good idea, but I'm gulping more than I'm breathing, and the extra air I'm taking in is making me feel sicker, not better. It has been an incredibly long day. I'm now convinced I'll never consider having a wedding. If I ever want to get married, I'll elope. What could Kristen have been thinking? Her wedding dress was beautiful, but how could she have dressed me in this horrible, full-length strapless dress? If she was going to make me be a bridesmaid (let's not kid
I .MISS EVERYTHING about being real. Using these objects to
ourselves; I had no choice in this; Mom would have killed
return to l i f e . . . it's like an addiction. I have to have another
me if I hadn't agreed to do it—or, worse yet, she might have
fix. I just can't decide which object to use next. T h e keys,
yammered on for days at a time about the importance and
buttons, beads, pen, Barbie doll, key chain . . .
meaning of family, about my lifetime relationship with my
In the end, I don't actually get a choice. I come across
older sister, etc.), why did she have to put me in such a long
some orchids, eerie, almost skeletal in their luminescent
dress? I've lived in fear all day of tripping over the hem of
form, and before I know it, I'm remembering that I wore
the gown. That walk down the aisle? Nightmare. I almost
them in my hair for my sister's wedding. T h e memory is
stumbled. And how humiliating, having to walk down the
enough to earn' me home, to the moment w h e n . . .
aisle on the arm of Gabriel—one of the most gorgeous
38
19
guys at school, and cousin to the groom! His firm grip on
butter-blond hair that curled into perfect ringlets. He was
my arm kept me from making a complete fool of myself in
shorter than I was, but I had dreams of him shooting past
front of everyone in the church, but he obviously noticed
me in heigh:. My mother laughed the first time she saw him
my clumsiness. He winked at me and everything. Winked!
and figured out how I felt about him.
Ohmygod. So unfair. Why couldn't I have walked down the
But she's not laughing anymore. In the years since then,
aisle with the groom's brother instead? I mean, he is, like,
Gabe has obliged me by growing a lot. He's a couple inches
thirty, so no attraction there, right? And he'd probably have
past six fee: now. His hair has darkened some over the
pretended not to notice that I was a complete klutz,
years, but it's still a shade of blond. The curls are gorgeous,
To make it all worse, a few days ago Gabriel broke up with his girlfriend, Dana (who'd been his girlfriend for, like,
too. I'd kill to have hair that beautiful. And his shoulders have filled out.
two years). I haven't been able to stop thinking about that
So, last night, at the wedding rehearsal when Mom saw
all day long. It's the kind of thing that, you know, gives a
him for the first time since sixth grade, she was surprised
girl a glimmer of hope—as if I had a chance with a guy as hot as Gabe Archer.
how much he'd changed. She's been telling me ever since how lucky E am to get to walk up the aisle with such an
Sandra's always telling me that I'm prettier than I think
"attractive" (totally her word, not mine) young man. The
I am—that my freckles are cute and that my brown hair has
job included the responsibility of being his partner during
just the right red highlights, but she's my best friend, so she
the second dance of the evening, too. And I admit the idea
has to say stuff like that. It's not as if a few halfway decent
had a lot of appeal.
features will attract a guy who has absolutely everything
Until ri^ht between the wedding and the reception—
going for him. He's friendly, smart, and has these wide,
which is when I started to feel not so hot. I didn't want to say
wide shoulders that fill out his tux perfectly....
anything about it to my mom. I mean, what could she do?
I've been tormenting myself with thoughts like this all day. Mv mom hasn't made getting Gabe off my mind any
She was busy being the mother of the bride. And I wouldn't want to ruin Kristen's wedding, either.
easier, either. She's reminded me—like, seven times—about the crush I had on Gabe back when I was in sixth grade. Back then, every girl crushed on Gabe. He had this
I thought at first that I was just tired. It'd been a long morning and afternoon. So I just kept trying to muddle through. By the time dinner arrived at the table, my 'i
eyeballs felt like they were on fire. I started wondering il I
her, but last night she'd been so bossy that even he'd com-
had a fever.
mented on it. That's when I shared with him my nickname
Gabe was sitting next to me. "You don't look so great,
for her.
Maddy," he told me.
Gabe's mouth was full, but he nodded his head vigor-
G e e . . . just what every girl wants some hot guy to say to
ously and then started to stand up as if he were planning
her. He realized his mistake right away, and he started stut-
to come with me. Right. Gabe in the ladies' restroom. Not
tering", "I mean—not that way, just, you know .. . like you
such a good idea. I held my hand up, and he stopped mid-
don't feel so good. You look great in that dress and all . . .
move. Then I turned and fled off the dais and toward the
v'know. I just meant you . . . are you sick?"
bathrooms.
T h e sound of concern in his voice cheered me up a little but not much. "I don't know," I told him. "Let's hope not."
Just my luck, there were, like, twenty women in there, going to the bathroom or refreshing their makeup.
We were sitting on a dais at the head table—facing all
I turned and ran outside, looking for an inconspicuous
the other wedding guests. He glanced out at the crowd of
spot where I could have some privacy. I could barely stand
faces. "Yeah, let's hope not," he said. He dove into his food
up.
with an enthusiasm that made me feel even sicker. The
And then Gabe was there, holding on to my arm. By that
sounds all around me were ringing in my head, too. All chat
point, I was glad he'd followed me, because I didn't think I
cheering, and the frequent clinking of knives on champagne
could stand on my own anymore. I sank onto my knees.
glasses . . . way too much for me.
Now he's holding me tightly against him so I don't do
"Ummm, I think I'd better get out of here," I said to
a complete nose dive into the grass. I wobble a bit and my
Gabe. "Will you tell Her Highness that I think I'm going to
hair brushes against his chest. Some of it is pulled out of
be sick? Otherwise, she's sure to raise hell about my leaving
its updo. T h e orchids from my hair tumble to the ground
right now." Her Highness was Brenda Jackson, my sister's
between us.
college roommate, maid of honor, and -Manager Extraordi-
He has just gotten down on his knees beside me and is
naire. I'd been bossed around by her so much in the past few
telling me to try breathing deeply. We hear Her Highness's
weeks that I was ready to kill her.
voice coming at us across the lawn. "What's wrong with
Gabe hadn't had as many opportunities to run aloul of
her, Gabe?"
43
I groan. "Does she have to yell loud enough tor the
situation requires the Maneuvering of an Expert (this is the
whole world to hear?" I ask, just as my body begins to shud-
first time I have ever been thankful for Brenda's bossiness).
der. I want to throw up, but with Gabe here, I want even
She pushes Gabe away from me (So what if I fall face-for-
more desperately not to humiliate myself in front of him.
ward into my own barf? Way less embarrassing than leaving
Unfortunately, millions of years of evolution, designed
my chest exposed) and starts stuffing me back into my dress
to help humans combat viruses and food poisoning, causes
while yelling at Gabe, "Get out of here! Go! Go get her
my stomach to callously disregard the needs of my self-
mother!"
esteem.
Gabe disappears, my stomach stops ejecting its contents,
My stomach erupts.
and Brenda is ripping up pieces of grass. She uses them to
T h e disgusting taste of bile fills my mouth, and Bren-
try to wipe mv face and mouth. I'd prefer to "soil" the hem
da's voice reaches me from the background: "Hold her up,
of my dress, but Brenda sees what I'm trying to do and man-
Gabriel! Hold her up! She's going to soil her dress."
handles me into submission. Then she pulls me away from
Even as I lose the contents of my stomach, a part of my
the barf and gently rests me on my side.
brain is capable of wondering who ever talks about soiling a
"Madison, have you been drinking?"
dress. Soiling? I mean, come on. But that thought is quickly replaced by* the realization that something horrendous—even more horrendous than barfing in front of a hot guy—is happening; Gabriel is trying to hold me up enough to keep me from "soiling" my dress, but he has forgotten a key law of physics: T h e force exerted on Object One (my shoulders) + the force exerted on Object Two (my strapless dress, which is trapped beneath my knees) = mortification (when my dress does not follow my shoulders upward, but my breasts do). • •• Her Highness has arrived and seems to realize this
The very thought makes my stomach revolt all over again. I groan. "Nooo . . . I think I've got the flu. I haven't been feeling so great all day." She kneels down beside me. "Poor kid," she says, and— as we wait for my mother—pets my hair like I'm a dog. Mom runs up to us, her violet mother-of-the-bride dress (Why do they make those out of such awful material?) fanning out behind her in the breeze. "Oh, sweetie, what's wrong?" she asks. She takes over petting my hair, but she's had lots of practice at it, so it feels like a mother comforting a daughter. None of that pet-thedog stuff. 45
44
"She thinks she has the flu," Brenda tells her. "She said she hasn't felt well all day."
I'm falling, and of Mom's hand gently brushing my hair away from my face when I most need her.
"You should have said something. I would have tigured
And by the time I've gone through this experience
out how to get you out of this situation," Mom tells me,
several times, I discover that as long as I'm not trying to
but not like she's angry or frustrated with me. Just like she
change anything while I'm there, the living me doesn't feel
wants me to know it would have been okay for me to ask for
that creepy sense of being watched.
help.
Strange, huh?
She guides me to my feet and then encourages me to
But here's something even stranger: After about my
lean against her as we start to move. "I'm taking you home
fourth time visiting this moment, I actually begin to like
right now. Brenda, tell Kristen and John where I've gone,
Brenda.
and that I'll be back as soon as possible. They'll just have to hold up the bridal dance until I manage to get back." Mom leads me carefully toward the c a r . . . . •
Now I k n o w . . . . It's getting too far from a lost object, leaving it behind, that launches me back to Is. I can't remain indefinitely in my life. T h e Universe only lets me stay there until I've found the object or moved a certain distance from it. But, thankfully, it lets me return as many times as I want to a moment if I never find the object. T h i s makes me glad the flowers have been left behind, I'm able to return and return and return to this moment. The nausea, the vomiting, the humiliation, all of it's worth it to reexperience the feel of Gabriel's grip on my arm when 46
4]
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HwpCTG>lllns.PubHdTera
loop it around the hook on my bottom row of braces. "Ooohhh . . . Oh, nooo!" The disappointment in Sandra's voice distracts me. I pull a little too hard on the rubber band. It snaps and flies out of my mouth. How humiliating. Then I see what Sandra's just seen.
random acts o( existtence
Incredible. Awful. Paul's walking down the hallway with Mary Kramer. And they're holding hands. Sandra sees the look on mv face and reaches out to touch my arm. "I can't believe he'd do that, back to his exgirlfriend that way." Sandra might not be able to believe it, but I can. Mar}'
oqe I)
Kramer is about a million times prettier than I am. She never needs to worry about whether the rubber bands on
I'm digging through a little plastic bag looking for a purple
her braces match because she has the world's most perfect
rubber band to attach to my braces. I'm hoping there's one
teeth and will never need orthodontics.
more. I've already put one on the right side. T h e colors of my rubber bands have to match, right? Green, yellow, red. I'm standing at the end of a row of lockers, and Sandra,
Sandra's going on. "Besides, you didn't really like him all that much , did you?" Past tense. As if I have already slopped liking him.
who's supposed to be blocking me from everyone's view,
The irony is that Paul was only my boyfriend for two
starts to move away. "Hey, get back here," I say. I don't want
weeks. My first boyfriend. And that's more because he
the whole world to see me digging around in my mouth for
picked me than because I picked him. I didn't even like
the after-lunch-rubber-band-replacement session. What if
him two weeks ago when the rumors started going around
Paul walks by?
that he liked me. But I wanted a boyfriend, so I gave him
I find a purple rubber band. I reach for it and start to
a chance, got to know—and really like—him at Amber's
48
party a week ago. We even kissed in her basement. And, wow, I guess that was a huge mistake. It was my
age 6
first kiss and I failed at it. Paul laughed at me and said, "That's not what you do," ri^ht before trying to teach me
"Kristen, stop hittintr your sister," Mom says. We are driv-
the "right" way to kiss—which had something to do with
ing co Florida. I am six, and my parents have promised me a
sharing his gum.
trip to Disney World for spring break. Kristen is too old to
I bet Mary Kramer's a better kisser than I am. That's probably the number one reason he's back with her.
enjoy the trip. At thirteen, she'd rather be going somewhere exciting with her friends, but my parents keep reminding
And now I'm stuck liking him. Probably forever.
her that she got to go to Disney World when she was little
Sandra puts her arm around my shoulders. "He's a jerk.
and now it's my turn.
Forget about him. You'll find someone better." I don't think so. I'm a failure. I'm never going to like a guy again.
I grin in satisfaction and say in my head, Yo-it got in trouble, you got in trouble. I know better than to say it aloud. That will get me in trouble with Dad, who is already annoyed.
Except—of course—Paul.
But Kristen can tell I'm making fun of her with my eyes.
Tammy walks by. She sees the look on my face and does
She knocks a package of Life Savers out of my hand so hard
a double take. Almost like she wants to say something to
that some of them roll along the floor and under the seat. I
me. That would be the first time since the slumber party
start scavenging for them. When I think I have them all, I
last month. Maybe she realizes I wasn't trying to make fun
stick my tongue out at Kristen. She just glares back.
of her when we were playing with the Ouija board. I'm hopeful for a second. Then she's gone.
' T u r n on the air-conditioning," Kristen moans for at least the twentieth time. It's not all that hot in the car. We're only in southern
Lately, it seems like I'm losing everyone I care about.
Ohio, and it's just the beginning of April. 'Til turn it on
Sandra leads me away from the lockers and toward our
when we get farther south and it's hotter," Dad says.
fifth-hour class.
Kristen makes a nasty snorting sound. Dad likes to have the windows of the car open, but the wind whipping through them is messing up Kristen's hair. I just don't see the big
deal. Now getting to see Aurora and Belle and Ariel—that will be a big deal. I can't think about anything else. I have all my princess books stacked in my lap.
have a sleepover. Were is the most important word here. Sandra's mother hasn't been feeling well lately, so every time in the past few months we've asked if I could stay
I flip one open and start reading it. "Want to read with
over, we've been told no. Sandra's mother suffers from bad
me?" I offer Kristen. I can think of no greater peace offer-
migraines. Noise makes them worse. So it makes sense to
ing.
me that I shouldn't spend the night at her house.
She glares at me.
But why Sandra hasn't been able to stay the night at my
"Please. They're good books."
house .. - that I just don't get. Every time we bring the sub-
She rolls her eyes at me and pulls out a pillow, then hides
ject up with her mother, she starts saying things like, "If you
her face underneath it. Mom sees the hurt look on my face. "Don't worry about it, Maddy," she tells me. "Just enjoy your books."
really feel you must go, darlin', I understand." Her mother was raised in the South, and she has this honeyed way of speaking the word darlin that drives me crazy; maybe that's
"Will you read along with me?" I ask. I want company.
because Sandra melts whenever her mother says it. And to
Mom smiles at me. "Next rest stop I'll change places
make things worse, her mother adds something like, "I*m
with Kristen. She can sit up here, and I'll sit back there with
feeling so sick, darlin', that I can understand why you'd
you so we can read the stories together."
rather be at a friend's house than here keeping me company.
"Thank God," Kristen emerges from under the pillow
But I'll miss you so much while you're gone. W h o will bring
long enough to say. T h e n she hides back underneath it. The
me my cup of tea when I don't even think I can make it out
next few minutes are peaceful until Dad stops at the rest
of bed?"
area. When we all get out of the car . . .
That just sort of kills any desire Sandra has to stay at my house.
age II
Sandra and I have been fighting about this stuff a Lot lately. I keep saying she should stay at my house even though
I'm in Sandra's bedroom. I'm trying to get dressed and pack
her mother doesn't want her to. She says she just can't, not
my clothes, but I'm missinq a pair of socks.
when her mother needs her so much.
It's Sandra's eleventh birthday, and we were planning to
Two days ago, when Sandra invited me to her house for
a birthday sleepover, I was crazy excited. It's been ages since
best friend. My best friend wouldn't let her mother do this
we've spent the night together.
to her. How can Sandra not see this is all an act on her
I should have known better. Mrs. Simpson is a mastermind at ruining my time with Sandra, and I should have
mother's part? That her mother wants to ruin our time together?
expected her to pull it off tonight, too. Except I guess I
Sandra's mother leaves the room, and I look at the dev-
thought that, this being a birthday, her mother would go
astated expression on Sandra's face. Her brownish-green
out of her way to make it a nice night for Sandra.
eyes are wide and glittering. She's holding her own arms
No such luck.
like she's hugging herself. Even her normally bouncing,
Five minutes ago, Sandra's mom knocked on the bed-
curly hair seems to drag along the side of her face. Guilt
room door, stuck her head inside, and said, "I'm so sorry, girls, but I have a migraine coming on. I'm afraid that Madison is going to have to go home." "Please, Mom," Sandra begged. "We'll be quiet. I promise. We haven't had a sleepover in ages."
washes over me. None of this is Sandra's fault. The doorbell rings. My mother is here. I still haven't found my socks. I don't want to leave Sandra here by herself wearing that desperate expression . . . on her birthday of all
Mrs. Simpson started crying. "I'm so sorry, darling. I
days. But now I can hear my mother's voice in the entryway.
wanted so badlv for this to be a perfect night for the two
She's asking for me. Forget the socks. I know it's a bizarre
of you. Maybe Daddy can take me to a motel so I can have
idea, but I figure that they can stay here and keep Sandra
enough quiet to recover. I'd just be so lonely there all bv
company for the night.
myself. Your dad would have to come back here to check on
I give Sandra a hug. A sob starts to wrack her body,
you. And I get so scared when I'm so sick. I can't get up by
but as her mother walks back into the room, she chokes it
myself if I need to. But I'll call Madison's mom and tell her
down.
not to come get her if your father says—" "No, Mom," Sandra said. "We understand. We'll do it again some other time." Except / definitely don't understand. I want to cry. I'm feeling ripped apart inside. My best friend isn't really my S
iis_ht.n
Words cannot express the explosion of emotion erupting from me. It escapes in hysterical screams. I hear them. They're loud but not loud enough to release this surge of emotion. That's all I can do: release it. So I throw every bit of my being into screaming louder, screaming from somewhere deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.
p h o t o in the wind
Gabriel's tires screech on the cement as he pulls back into the drive. From somewhere far away, I process that he's coming, running toward me, so I stop screaming and start crying as he reaches for me and wraps me in his arms. "It's okay, it's okay," he's saying as he presses my face to his shoulder and strokes my hair, but then he's swearing—gently, softly. An obscene lullaby takes shape as he alternates between reassuring me and expressing his shock in four-
age 17
letter words. My horror converts to anger, and I push away from him,
The scrapbook and folder of pictures is slipping around in my arms. Too much stuff. I'm bound to drop it and lose half my pictures in this ridiculous wind. I shouEd have accepted Gabe's help carrying this stuff into the house.
saying, "It's not okay. It's not. She's dead. Cozy's dead." And the worst is that "dead" doesn't even begin to describe what she is. Mutilated...
Too late now. He's pulling out of the driveway.
Broken . . .
What's that on the front porch? It's right in my way.
Crushed...
I'm not sure I can manage to step over it while juggling all this— "Ohmygod!" I scream, dropping everything, I don't care what happens co it.
Blood around her head has matted her hair in clumps. Her legs, broken, are arranged in an unnatural shape. Her tail, that once-proud flae; proclaiming her cathood, is limp and bent. The saddest thing I notice is the dried blood that
trickled from her mouth at the end. That same mouth with
"No, Maddy, I don't think so. It's bizarre, you're right,
the scratchy sandpaper tongue she used so many times to
finding her here like this, but it has to be that someone was
lick ice cream off my lingers.
stupid enough not to realize this isn't how you bring some-
"Who'd do this?" I choke out around sobs, pulling away from Gabe. "No one," Gabe says. "At least not on purpose. It was an accident. She must've gotten hit by a car." I can't tell if he's trying to protect me or if he's actually this stupid. Either way, I'm not putting up with it.
one's cat back after it's been hit by a car. Some kid, maybe, who doesn't know any better. C'mon." What he's saying makes a whole lot more sense than what I'm thinking. I let him pull me back into his arms. I want to believe him. But I just can't.
I turn my back to Cozy. I can't stand to see her as I con-
The air around me seems to mold itself into an omi-
front the universe with this cruelty. "She's not in the road,
nous shape. It presses against me so hard that I can barely
Gabe. If she'd been hit by a car, she'd be in the road."
breathe. I've become prey to a new feeling I've never expe-
"Maybe a neighbor—"
rienced before. Something out there is tracking me down.
"She's arranged, Gabe. Posed. Someone wanted us to see
I can feel it. Something has caught the scent of my blood.
her this way." I discover that I'm whispering, trying to pro-
And I don't know how to escape it, because I don't have any
tect Cozy, for God's sake, as if I don't want her to hear the
idea which direction the threat is coming from.
truth about what's happened to her. As if she doesn't already know. She was there. But still I whisper. "A neighbor wouldn't stick her on the porch for us to . . . to stumble over." "Maddy, I'm sorry. I know you loved her." "I've loved her for ten years. Why? W h o hates us enough to kill our cat?" "I don't know what happened here, Madison. But I just can't believe that someone . . . someone . . . y'know—" "Killed her, Gabe. Someone killed her."
Gabe kisses my forehead. "I never figured out what her third name was," I whisper, holding him even tighter. "What?" I can tell he thinks I'm losing it. Maybe I am. "Never mind," I say. I wish he understood what I meant, but I don't have the energy to explain Mom and T. S. Eliot's theory about cat names—or that I've caught Cozy over the years contemplating this secret she's managed to keep from me. Gabe whispers, "Go in the house. Call your mom and l?S
dad. I'll pick up all those photos and come in to sit with
It's an appalling thought.
you."
God, if you're out here somewhere amid all this clut-
I do what he tells me.
ter from my life, please tell me that whatever happened to
Because I can't look at Cozy again.
Gabriel, it wasn't that.
Because even though I don't care about my scrapbook right now, I know I will someday. But mostly I do because I'm afraid that whatever is stalking me will return, and I'm scared to stay out here any longer. I step through the front door, expecting my house's crisp scent of eucalyptus to offer some comfort. Dut it doesn't. I sense that the house is grieving the loss of Cozy, too.
Is feels emptier than it ever has when I return this time, but at least I'm feeling some hope: Maybe Cozy never did actually know what happened to her in those final moments. After all, I don't know what happened in my hnal moments. And now I realize something important: .Maybe I shouldn't want to know so badly what happened to me. 1 remember that trickle cf blood matted along Cozy's jaw, and then 1 recall the oppressive feeling of being stalked that hit me just before I went into the house. I'm afraid that whatever was stalking me . . . found me.
What if... What if my predator caught Gabriel in its net, too? Vi
v,\
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shaking from the car accident—even if it was three hours ago. I was so upset right after it happened that my parents weren't going to leave me alone to go do the painting at Kristen's. I convinced them to go, thinking time alone with Gabe would help me more than hanging out with my parents would, but now he's not even concerned about the way
e ring
his ex-girlfriend almost killed me. More than t h a t . . . he's defending her. "You weren't there, Gabe. I'm not being silly and paranoid. I'm telling you, she hit me on purpose. We were both stopped at a stop sign. I had the right of way. She looked directly at me and then drove that Mercedes straight into the driver's side of my car. She wanted to hurt me." "That doesn't even make sense. Why would she mess up
age 17
her parents' car?" "Uh, hello? Because she wants to hurt me? Because she
''You're paranoid," Gabe says.
still wants you back?"
"I am notl" This whole home-alone-with-Gabe thing
"Jesus, Maddy. You and I have been together for a year
isn't going the way I thought it would. Here I am, with my
and a half now. It's not like she would think I'm going to go
boyfriend, in my own bedroom where we could be comfort-
running back to her anytime soon. And hitting you with a
ably horizontal on the bed together, no parents barging in
car wouldn't do anything to get her back with me anyway,
(they're with Kristen, helping her paint the baby's room),
unless she killed you or something. She's not a murderer.
and what are we doing? Fighting.
You're the one who's jeal—"
"You are, too," Gabe says. "This is just silly."
He's just admitted that he'd go back to her if I were
Okay, being told I'm silly and paranoid? This takes me
dead, and he thinks he's going to go on happily accusing me
to an all-new level of anger. It isn't helping any that I'm still
of being silly? "See?! You just admitted you'd get back with
1JB
m
her if I were dead!"
he not believe me? I thought he loved me.
"I did not'. How crazy can you ge:, Moody? You know
I grab a small ring off my vanity (I'd use something big-
that's not at all what I meant! Your jealousy is driving me
ger if it were in reach) and whip it at him where he's standing
insane. You've never been able to let go of thinking that I
in the doorway.
still have a thing for her. No matter what I do, I can't get you to let go of that."
The I-don't-know-this-girl look that crosses his face is too much I'm humiliated. He's right—I am psycho right
"Well, gee, Gabe, it might help if you'd stop defending
now. I owe him an apology, and yet, even though I know
her. Maybe then I'd believe that you cared about me more
this, and even though humiliation has just been added to
than you do her."
the emotional stew I've been cooking, I feel like I hate Gabe
"I do! But I'm not going to believe that Dana hit you
right now.
on purpose with her parents' Mercedes. Sometimes she's
And I hate him even more when he turns on his heel
awful. I admit it. But she's not that crazy. And she isn't try-
and simply walks away from me. His feet pound quicklv
ing to kill you."
down the stairs, and then I hear the front door slamming.
Okay, I start crying. I can't explain to him how . . . inse-
Still crying, I wander over to the doorway and get down
cure I've felt since we found Cozy deed on the front porch
on my hands and knees to start searching for the missing
a few weeks ago. That strange sense of being hunted hasn't
ring. It isn't valuable or anything. It's just a ring that my
gone away. It's just intensified. And today, as Dana was pull-
grandma gave me for my twelfth birthday. But it seems
ing that car straight into me, it was like my predator finally
incredibly important that I find it right now. I've lost so
Lituijhi me. T u n e seemed lu slow, lo lauuli al ilie way I'd
much else—iny cat, my boyfi lend, my samly. I LUII'L beai lu
been captured.
lose this r:ng, too. It feels as if finding it might help me find
"This isn't just me being paranoid or jealous, Gabe. I mean it. She wants me dead. I think she even killed Cozy."
all the other things I've lost. Something metal brushes against—
The strangest look crosses his face. It's terrifying to me because I can tell he thinks I've gone off the deep end on this one. I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life. And all those feelings roil inside me with anger. How dare
130
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and clean, I'm happy to see the lonely popcorn piece on the ground. "But 1 want to go back on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride," Kristen moans. I kick the piece of popcorn along as we walk. This is one of my favorite things to do. Walk . . . kick . . . walk . . .
o s i n j myself o r d i s n e y w o r l d
kick... "We will," Mom reassures her. "But your father wants to take you on the Jungle Cruise first." "You said we could go through the Pirates of the Caribbean ride again," I whine. I feel betrayed. I give my popcorn piece an extra-hard kick. It skitters off and I lose sight of it.
This. Is. It. The end of the world. It's too hot. I don't want to see
oge 6
anything else except the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, where it's dark and cool. I'm tired. My eyes hurt. My feet
H o t , . . h o t . . . hot. The sun beats down on us. I love the
hurt. My head aches.
Magic Kingdom, but I'm tired of the heat and just plain
And now I've lost a piece of popcorn.
exhausted. T h e sun glares off of everything. And my face
A piece that was very important to me.
feels gritty with sweat. My hair is soaked. Mom and Dad
I can't help it. I begin to cry.
have even decided that we all need popcorn to replace some
My family hasn't even noticed that they've left me
of the salt we've lost from sweating.
behind. They keep right on walking. Fine .. . if they don't
1 like that idea.
care about me, then I don't care about them, either. I'll run
I take a piece of popcorn and drop it, watching it fall. It
awav and live in the Swiss Family Treehouse that we saw
seems to float slowly in the heavy air. When it finally hits the ground, I kick it with my foot. This place is so glittering
IBi
earlier today. All by myself. Forever. Only . . . that's not sounding quite so great now that I 193
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can't even see my family anymore, I panic. I start crying even harder. Suddenly, Mom and Dad are standing in front of me. "Madison, stay with us!" my mother starts to chastise me, but then she notices how hard I'm crying, so she wipes my face
is
with a Kleenex instead. "C'mon, sweetie," she says. She reaches for my hand and pulls. I yank my hand away from hers. " W h a t is i t , honey?" Daddy asks.
"My popcorn," I wail. "It's right there in your hand," Daddy tries to reassure me, gesturing to the bucket I'm still holding. "No," I explain through my sobs. "I was kicking a piece and I lost it." A strange silence descends between them, even as all the noise of the Magic Kingdom surrounds us.
MOM AND DAD'S COMMENT about "object attachment" suddenly makes perfect sense. I've always had some kind of
Then Mom says something really strange to Dad, I
connection to the things I've owned. Losing them left me
hear something that sounds like "object attachment." Even
feeling bereft because they were linked to everyone and
though I don't understand those words, I know Mom's tone
everything in my life that was important. And unlike the
of voice. It's the one she uses when what she really means is
people I loved, I could control them—at least I could when
"Maddy's difficult. I can't wait until she's older"—even if
I wasn't losing them.
those aren't the words she's saying. "C'mon, sweetheart," Daddy says. "I'll give you a piggyback ride." I climb on Daddy's back, and we move on toward Cinderella's Castle.
Objects are safe, too. I mean, they don't change much. A pen stays a pen and a set of keys always unlocks something. You can go back to the object, hold it, remember who you were when you loved it. That's something you can count on. I:i
IS*
But let's face it, I'm not talking about "you" right now.
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HaggfialllMfafelJslM
I'm talking about me. T h e same me who—even in death—is incredibly attached to these things because they take me back to who I was. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem quite as fulfilling as it once did to have a relationship with a piece of popcorn that I'm kicking along on the pavement...
the pinecone
Kicking... I suddenly realize I haven't tried that yet with the pinecone. I've imagined myself doing every other possible thing that can be done with it. But I never envisioned myself kicking it as I walked along. Could that be . . . ? I swim myself through the currents of space until I find the pinecone, and . . .
age 17 "What am I going to do, Maddv?" I kick the pinecone along as we walk down the trails of the park. I know I need to get out of my head, where the image of Gabe's and my light last week is on automatic replay 24-7. We still haven't talked to each other, and I can't stop wondering if this is the end of our relationship. Our gazes have met across the hallway several times, and I keep wanting to go up and tell him how sorry I am that I threw that ring at him. But I just can't. I guess it's the humiliation. And the IB'
IB.1
fear . .. that he won't accept my apology. And—let's face it,
right. You know that. How could you stand to live with her
I'm still angry at him, too, about Dana.
without your dad there to help you manage her?"
I keep expecting to see him walking down the hall with her or something.
There ought to be a law that says parents can't get divorced during their kids' senior year of high school. They
Only—thank God—he doesn't.
ought to have to stick it out until the kids are gone so they
He just looks at me like he wants to talk to me, too, but
don't disrupt the most important year of our lives.
can't. It's hard to stop thinking about all that and pay attention to Sandra. But I have to do it somehow. She needs me right now. Some friend I am . . . only half concentrating on what she's saying.
"But if I stayed," Sandra argues, "it'd only be for the rest of this year, right? I mean, in eight months I'll be going away to college." "Sandra . . . It's hard to figure out how to tell her this. She's always been so touchy when it comes to talking about her mother. There's a lot about her mom that she just won't
And the thing is . .. the decision she makes about this
admit to herself . . . like that her mother's a really sick
whole mess is going to have an impact on me. What if I lose
woman—and I'm not talking physically. "I'm not sure that
my best friend, too? I can't bear that. It almost makes me
you'll go to college if you stav here with your mom."
want to give her what I know is the wrong advice. Because if she does what's right, I will lose her.
"I'm going to college. There's no way I'm not!" she protests.
Sure, if she moves to Oregon with her dad, she'll still
"Oh, I know you'll take college classes. But, well, I don't
email me and call. Even come to visit sometimes. But it won't
think you'll go away to college. I think your mom will man-
be the same. Gradually the emotional distance between us
age to convince you to stay at home and go to community
will match the distance between .Michigan and Oregon.
college. Or maybe she'll convince you to go part-time so
The pain of that realization slices through my obsession
you can commute to a university. B u t . . . " I kick the pine-
with Gabriel and helps me concentrate on how important
cone a little too hard, and it skitters off the path into the
this really is.
grass. I track it down but have to kick it a couple times to get
"I don't want you to leave, Sandra. / want you to stay
it back onto the path. "Can you see your mom living alone?"
here with your mom, but your mom's . . . well, not quite
I just know Airs. Simpson will convince Sandra that leaving
her alone will kill her. "But how can I go off with Dad right now and leave her by herself? It's like she'd die. Maybe even kill herself."
In frustration, I kick the pinecone too hard again, but I'm so focused on Sandra that I don't pay much attention to where it's going. " See? That's what I mean. She'll do that to
Too late—obviously. Mrs. Simpson has already con-
you again next year when it's time for you to go to college.
vinced Sandra she's responsible for the life and death of her
Convince you that she'll be all alone if you leave." I want to
mother.
tell her that her mother is seriously crazy, but my credibility
Still, Sandra's comment shows progress—sort of. San-
in the judging-people's-sanity category has plunged to an
dra's never admitted before that her mom is this kind of
all-time low. Even Sandra thinks it was nuts that I accused
unstable.
Dana of killing my cat and trying to kill me. Better that I
But a response to the comment is also tricky. I'm not
not mention anything related to, well, mental health.
sure exactly how to approach this subject, so I sound totally
We're both silent for a moment as I look for the pine-
stupid as I talk in slow motion. "At least. . . if you go . . .
cone off the path. I don't find it. Sighing, I sit down on
now . . . you'll have, well, your dad . . . he'll help vou get up
the grass. Sandra's still standing, and as I gaze up at her, I
the .. . courage . . . to do it. You'll have him . . . reassuring
notice that in the past few months she's gained weight. I'm
you t h a t . . . well, that you need . . . a life, too. And if you . . .
surprised. How could I not have noticed until this moment
leave with him . . . won't your grandma . . . I mean . . . can't
that she's put on about fifteen pounds? Have I been that
your mom . . . live with her parents? If you weren't here . . .
absorbed in my own life? She's lost that birdlike fragility
maybe she'd . . . maybe she'd move back South . . . with
I've always thought of her as having, and I mourn its loss—
them."
not because she's less pretty than she used to be, but because
"She says she won't. She's going to stay right here, and she wants me to stay with her." Great. Just great. It's like Airs. Simpson has already anticipated all mv moves and put her game pieces in place to defend against them. She's not a woman I ever want to plav chess with. Yet that seems to be exactly what I'm doing.
m
the difference in her shows me how much everything has been changing lately. "She thinks you'll try to get me to stay, you know." "What do you mean?" I ask, patting the ground next to me, encouraging her to sit. She does. "Whenever we have this conversation at home, she tells me to ask vou what to do. She thinks you'll try to 191
gel me to stay here with you."
"Yeah, I do," she admits. "It's just so hard to do what
I can just imagine those scenes. No doubt Sandra's mom
I should. I'm terrified that—" She pauses for a moment,
is crying and pleading. She'll use tuny dirty tactic she can
unsure. Then she plunges ahead. "She's been threatening to
to keep Sandra tied to her. I'm glad I've managed to think
kill herself. I think she might really . . . this time . . . I mean
about Sandra's best interests instead of my own for once.
now . . . How do I tell you all this? There's stuff I probably
I know I'm selfish sometimes, but selfish enough to try to
should have let you know before."
keep Sandra under the spell of her mother?
There's wore?! I suddenly feel betrayed. I guess J
No. Not that selfish. I'd rather lose my best friend and
shouldn't have assumed I knew everything about Sandra,
have her get the chance to lead a somewhat healthy life than
even if she is my best friend, but still I don't like hearint;
keep her near me if it means living with her mother.
that she's been keeping secrets from me. Especially about
"Don't get me wrong, Sandra. I wish you could stay. I wish your dad wouldn't leave. Couldln't he get a job around here?"
her mom. When Sandra doesn't pick up the thread of her thoughts, I prompt her by using my knee to nudge hers.
She shakes her head sadly. "He says he has to get away
"Well, it seems like my whole life she's been threatening
from her, too. And he wants me to go with him. He thinks,
to kill herself. T h e first time I remember it, I was in, like,
like you do, that it'll be bad for me to stay here with Mom.
first grade, I think. She started waving around a butcher
But I don't see how he can just walk away from her like that.
knife while she was having some fight with Dad. Told him
She needs us. She's defenseless without us."
she'd kill herself."
"Or she wants you to think she is. She doesn't have to be." I don't add that her mother is anything but defenseless, She's one of the strongest women I know. She uses the appearance of weakness to get people to do what she wants them to. "Much as I want you to stay here—and I definitely
It's not hard to figure out who won that fight, but I keep my mouth shut about it. "When I went to camp during fourth grade, remember how I had to suddenly go home?" "Yeah. Your mom got sick."
do, Sandra—I want even more for you to be happy. And
"Well, sort of. She called and told me she had this bottle
you'd never be happy here alone in that house with your
of pills that made her feel better while I was gone, but she
mom. You know that, don't you?"
thought she'd need to take a lot of them to make all the pain
IV!
19i
go away. I only kind of got what she was hinting at, but I got
UNCORREC r£D E-PROOf—NOt FOR SAlE
it enough to know I was scared and had to go home." There's a moment of silence between us. "How often?" I finally ask. "How often what?" "How often does she threaten to kill herself?"
physics
"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes she'll go a couple years without ever threatening to kill herself. Then suddenly she'll be threatening her life every day for a couple weeks. Do you know how many different ways there are to kill yourself? I do. I think my mom's said she was going to use every one. The whole thing has always scared me, but not as much as it does right now. It's somehow different." I doubt it. "How? How is it different?" Sandra shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't explain it.
age 17
It just is." I put my arm around her and hug her. There's nothing
It's a beautiful fall day. Perfect for sitting outside the school
I can say to make her less afraid. Right now I have to find
to eat lunch. T h e leaves are all golden and orange, and a
strength I don't think I have to help support her through
breeze is teasing them out of their branches so they fall
this. Her latest confessions have only made me more con-
swirling around my feet under the picnic table.
vinced that she has to go live with her dad in Oregon. "C'mon," I say. "Let's go swing." She glances over at a row of swings where we used to play together when we were little. "Okay," she says. We get up slowly and take off toward the swings.
Too bad I can't enjoy the day's beauty. I'm miserable. Miserable because I'm feeling lonely without Gabe. We still haven't said anything to each other since the fight about my car accident. Miserable because Sandra didn't even come to school today. She must be that overwhelmed by the choice she has
US
to make. Miserable because I didn't manage to finish my physics homework and it's due in twenty minutes. Miserable because my sister went into labor this morning, but my parents wouldn't let me go to the hospital with her. They insisted I should go to school, since first babies take such a long time to enter the world. Can't say I blame babies for that. Who'd really want to enter this messed-up experience called life?
for about a half hour last night and never did get it to come out right." Great. Just great. And I have, what, twenty minutes to finish the whole assignment? But physics homework isn't what I want to be thinking about. "I'm sorry. I mean, about that whole . . . fight. I shouldn't have thrown that ring at you. I guess I was way shook up by that accident." Okay, I don't think that's actually why I did it, but hey, I'll use just about any fair excuse right now.
I'm so intent on all this that I don't realize at first that
"I know," he says. "I should have been cooler about the
I've been playing with my necklace . . . the one that Gabe
whole thing, too. AH my frustration with the thing between
gave me last summer. It's silver, and in the center, it has
you and Dana just hit crisis point."
seven different charms that spell out FOREVKR. Yeah. So much for that. We aren't even talking right now. Tears blur my eyes. Then I'm startled by a soft touch on my shoulder. I jump and whirl around, gasping. Gabe. He holds up his hands in a classic "I'm innocent" gesture. "Didn't mean to startle you," he says.
He straddles the bench next to me, dumping his backpack onto the picnic table. "I've been trying for a week now to figure out what to say to you." "Me too." "It's just that . . . Maddy, I love you. I do. And I don't understand why you don't know it." "Well, it's just that—" "Don't," he interrupts. He holds a finger against my lips.
"You didn't," I say, so desperate to be nice to him that it
His touch is so gentle, so cherishing that I know, somehow,
takes me a second to realize how obviously that's not true. "I
that everything will be all right. "I know it would be easier
mean," I stutter, "I mean, you did, but I'm glad you did."
for you if I just didn't have anything to do with Dana. But
We just gaze at each other for the longest time. T hen
can't you understand she was a major part of my life for
he finally says, "Did you get number eleven?" He nods his
two years? I feel like you're asking me to throw away those
head toward my physics homework. "I worked on that one
years of my life . . . completely. To write them off. I want
to move forward with you, but I don't want to give up my
infuse that kiss with power.
past. And even though I know Dana can be a complete pain
"I'm sorry, Gabe," I say when we finish kissing. I'm
sometimes, I can't believe that I'd spend two years going out
being deliberately vague because the truth is, I actually don't
with someone who's the kind of monster you keep trying to
know what I'm sorrv for. Maybe everything. And nothing.
convince me Dana is."
At the same time.
I look down at my physics homework. The wind is catching the edge of it, flipping up the bottom half of it. Only my cardboard container of uneaten french fries is holding it down. At the moment, it's easier to look at that paper than it is to meet Gabe's gaze. I feel so much . . . shame. Everything
He leans his forehead against mine . 1 like the feel of his skin. "I hope we don't ever fight again," I sav. He smiles wickedly. "The making-up part is pretty nice."
he's saying makes sense. But I don't know how to respond to
I grin.
it, because I stil 1 feel an intense fear of something, but I don't
He kisses me again.
know what is. I'm not imagining bogeymen here. There's a
Don't ask me why, but I remember the whole physics
real monster out there somewhere, and it's as likely to be
thing right then. N o t that Gabe isn't the kind of kisser who
Dana as anyone else.
can drive mundane thoughts of physics assignments right
And yet what if she is just a nonnal girl? What if she
out of my head . . . because he is. But I'm prettv wound
didn't purposefully cause that accident? Then who killed
up today . . . everything from Kristen's baby to Sandra's
my cat?
problems are pounding at my consciousness. And for some
"I'm not sure what to say, Gabe. I love you, too. I've been miserable without you the last week. I don't want to put you in a bad spot." He puts his index finger under my chin and lifts it up. Then he kisses the corner of my mouth. It's a soft kiss, like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and I want more. I turn to face him and, putting my arms around him, lean in for a real kiss. Something greater than either of us seems to
m
bizarre reason, it's the physics assignment that wins the anxiety war. "I don't suppose you want to help me with my physics," I say. Another wicked grin. "I thought I was helping you with physics." "Different form of physics. That one doesn't help my grade any in Mr. Martin's class." •'VI
He sighs. "Okay." He opens up his backpack and starts to pull out his book.
the dead thinned so that spirits could enter our world. Kind of a cool time to be born, actually."
"Want to come with me after school today to check on
"Hey," I protest, "you're poaching! Samhain and ancient
Sandra?" I ask. I fill him in on how she's been struggling
Celtic legend and folklore . . . that's all stuff we cover in AP
the last week to make this important decision. "Her lather
English. That's my area." Okay, so I hadn't actually remem-
wants to move by early next week, so she's really stressed
bered Samhain and the Celtic folklore associated with
about what she's going to do."
Halloween until Gabe brought it up, but so what? He can't
Gabe whistles in commiseration. "Sure, I'll go over there with you." "Oh, and Kristen went into labor this morning," I tell
him.
be smarter :han I am about evoyibingi can he? "You stick with physic; and calculus and stuff like that." He laugis. As he opens his book and pulls his assignment from it, he pushes aside my carton of french fries
"Hey, well, at least that's good news. Any word?"
a little too quickly. I he wind whisks away my half-done
"Not yet. I called my mom at the beginning of lunch,
homework. *Aahh," I say, trying to leap up from the picnic
and she said the hospital sent Kristen home to wait it out a
table. My left foot gets stuck under Gabe's leg and I start to
bit more. I heard that some first babies can take more than
lose my balance. Laughing, Gabe grabs my arm to keep me
twenty-four hours to arrive, so I guess that means she'll give
from nose-diving into the table, but Gabe makes the mis-
birth in the middle of the night or something."
take of letting go of his own homework.
"Hmm . . . October thirtieth seems like a good birthday to me."
The wind seems to mock both of us as it picks up his paper and sends it fleeing in a different direction from mine.
"Yeah. Or the thirty-first if it's after midnight. Both are
We each run off, laughing, in search of our homework.
pretty good." "Halloween baby." I laugh. "Don't say that. It makes my niece—or nephew— sound like Satan's spawn." " T h e ancient Celts believed that during this time of year the boundaries between the worlds of the living and ,u:
,'ji
UNCORRECTED E-PflOOF—NOT FOR SALE
I suppose it should be comforting to have him there—to have the company. But it's not, Because Gabe's there, but I can't reach him. I go in search of my physics homework. Is it still here? It should be. I remember now that we never found our homework. But one failing grade in physics . . . well, it just didn't seem that important after we'd gotten back together. That's all I remember about that day, though. And i t ' s . . . so near the end. I do know that. Kristen was in labor that day, and I never found out whether the baby was a boy or girl. I'm sure of that. If I'd ever known who that baby was, it would have changed me somehow, become part of me. I mean, Kristen's my sister. There's a connection there that can't be broken, even by
I HAVE A STRANGE SENSE about that moment with Gabe at
this death thing. I'm convinced I'd have the same connec-
the picnic table. It's somehow essential. I don't know why
tion to her child.
it is, but it's the centerpiece of the puzzle of my existence. If I could just figure out what pieces are supposed to be attached to it, maybe I could . . . W a i t . . . I do know one of the reasons that moment is so essential. Gabe is there. I mean, the dead Gabe. I could feel his presence there just like 1 did when we lost our keys. Ic makes sense that he'd be there, too. After all, he also lost his homework when we were sitting at the picnic table.
iCJ
So exactly what did happen that day? My physics homework is waiting for me, so I return . . . and return and r e t u r n , . . . But learn nothing. Frustrated, I start flinging myself randomly back into all the moments of my life that I still have access to. But nothing's changed in any of those moments. It's all still the same. Until about my tenth time returning to the picnic table scene....
;ji
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HMRetCMiO J..?Ait?JSdKB
lia.tB.e^9.HlPJ.PubJAlb.?.f.J.
the note
15
age W T H E SONG OF MY LIKE has changed again. Even though I I'm so intent on my misery, I don't notice at first that I've
can't now remember what happened on my earlier trips to
been playing with my necklace . . . the one Gabe gave me
that picnic table, I can tell that a significant shake-up has
last summer. It's silver, and at the center it has block letters
happened. Something is fundamentally different in my
that say FOREVER.
world because .. . because Gabe left me a note on that piece
Yeah . . . so much for that. We aren't even talking now.
of paper, and it wasn't the living Gabe who did it. It can't be.
Tears blur mv eyes, and I look down to see the words /
A ghost has been messing with that moment, and it doesn't
need to talk to yon written in strange handwriting. Definitely
feel like it was rne. T h e other ghost in that moment was
not mine.
Gabe.
How did that get on this piece of paper? I'm startled by a soft touch on my shoulder, and I whirl
And he wants to talk to me. I'm thrilled and full of longing but frustrated, too. I
around, gasping.
can't figure out how Gabe managed to leave me a note. My
Gabe...
ghost can't go around leaving notes for other people. T h e
,L!
i-JS
only change I've ever managed to make to my life in a revisit
moments. I can stay separate from myself... like I did the
is finding an object.
first few times I returned to mv life. On my original visit to
For a moment, I'm envious. Why does Gabe get to be a more advanced spirit than I am?
the sweatshirt, I stayed back and watched for a few minutes. I did the same thing when I used the bracelet. It was only
Maybe it's because he was better at physics than I was.
when I pushed myself too close to, well, myself, that I was
Maybe it takes some kind of understanding that I don't have
drawn back into the experience. Drawn like a magnet to a
of quantum mechanics . . . all that simultaneous-communi-
lodestone. I could have kept my distance. But I liked living
cation-and-observation-of-subatomic-particles-changing-
too much. So every time I returned to a moment of my life,
reality stuff.
I lived it again instead of observing it.
Maybe. But probably not. Me always did figure out life
For the first time ever in //, I laugh. At least, I think
foster than I did (well, except when it came to his dad and
that's what I'm doing. It's like every subatomic particle in
the whole drinking thing). I shouldn't be surprised that he
my being is dancing with delight.
managed to figure out death faster, too. So what's he doing differently than I am? I try to recall how my journeys back to life began. They started with the sweatshirt. Then there was the bracelet.. . which I found. Can't go back there to find the answer. At least not the way I'm used to going back to moments. But I can remember that moment. I have a nagging feeling that something was different about that visit than about the many others I've made since then. What was it? Then it comes to me. Ohmygod. It's been so obvious the whole time.
My mother was right. About everything. The whole object attachment thing? Right. Even in death, I've still been attached to those objects. The whole you-have-trouble-with-change speech she gave me when I started middle school? Right again. I haven't been able to let go of life. My mother knows me so well that she even knows who I am when I'm dead. It's time to experiment with observing instead of living. Who knows what will happen? I know just the right experience to start with.
And I've missed it. I don't have to be me when I'm experiencing those iti
:j.'
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Being here but not being me (at least the original me)
ttaBsCsUios-SubSsfesra
is way weird. This is a Mom that I've seen in pictures but don't actually remember. She is cooing at the baby me, who (by the way) stinks. I've never been able to stand the smell of baby. Eau de spit-up, baby powder, and plastic diaper? Yeah, no, thanks.
unrattled
Smell, I notice, is a lot different for me in this hovering spiritual state. It's not as real as when I'm living the moment. I can still smell things, but it's like all those scents are coming from a great distance, like they have to cross some kind of invisible boundary to get to me. That's the way sounds seem to work, too. Mom doesn't care that the baby me smells so bad. She's leaning close, talking nonsense to me and rubbing noses.
KEEP BACK . . . KEEP BACK, I remind myself. If I want to
It's a habit she didn't get rid of until I was older, so I have a
watch this all happening, I have to keep my distance from
clear memory of doing a lot of nose rubbing with her.
that baby in the bouncy seat on the kitchen floor. It's diffi-
I wonder if my spirit has any power over things in this
cult to do. There is a natural pull drawing me closer. I have
moment. Can I, for instance, knock over that plate balanc-
to work hard to resist it, but, surprisingly, the longer I do,
ing precariously on the edge of the counter? I sort of. . .
the easier it gets.
will it to happen.
When the force dragging me tapers off enough for me
And it does.
to notice what's actually going on in the room, my first thought is, Ofmiygpd... its Mom, and she looks so young.
Mom, startled, whirls around. "Whew . . ." she says as she realizes there's no immediate danger. She goes to the
My second thought is, Lose the outfit, Mom. Totally eight-
closet to get a broom. She cleans up the mess (I can't help
ies and it's well into the nineties. And the hair. Mom? Definitely
feeling proud of myself for creating it) and then goes back
has to go. It s long and curly and, well, bushy.
and picks me up, snuggling and cuddling me. "Nothing to
m
• CS
be scared of," she reassures baby me. "It was just a breeze knocking over the plate." Ha. Just a breeze. As mom puts baby me back in the bouncy seat, she chucks me under the chin, then moves
For the release, but also for graduating me to a new level in the spirit world. The Universe has actually given me more power than I thought it had. I can create changes in my original life from a ghost state, too.
toward the kitchen sink where she starts peeling carrots. I
Except...
miss her already. Loneliness emanates from a tiny me and,
Maybe this zipping around in and out of life as a spirit
like smell and sound, floats across the boundary between
isn't such a cool idea after all. There are some things that we
us, reaching me in the form of an echo.
are not meant to know, understand, or see. Like my mom
Baby me starts fussing, jerking around in the bouncy
trying to nurse me, for example.
seat, and knocks the rattle onto the floor. It slides under the
Besides, interfering in that moment has changed my
cabinet. My crying brings Mom rushing over. She says, in
original life again. I'm starting to feel that strange shifting
a singsong voice, "What's the matter with my baby? Is she
of self. "It was just a silly plate I broke!" I find myself want-
wet?"
ing to shout at the Universe.
Oh, get real, I want to tell her. I just lost my rattle. Mow
Not that it would care, anyway.
hard is it to notice that? Apparently, pretty hard. She picks me up, checks my
The Universe just doesn't make the best of companions. I long for something more than it's giving me. I recall the
diaper, realizes it isn't messy, and then starts trying to nurse
note that Gabriel left at the picnic table: / need to talk to
me . . . nurse me?! Ohmygod . . . this is so sick. I have to get
you.
out of here. Now! But how? I have to wait until my body moves a certain distance from the lost object, don't I? Thank God the baby me isn't having anything to do with the whole nursing thing. I keep pulling away, and finally Mom decides to take me for a little walk down the hallway.
Realization tingles through me: I've been too focused on how Gabe managed to leave me that note. Too focused on his desire to see me. I've been missing a possible implication of his words: Maybe we can talk. I try to imagine how this would be possible. If I return to a moment that another ghost shares with me, and stay in
Released. Sent back to //.
the state I used for observation, will I encounter that other
Thank God. Or the Universe. Or Whatever.
ghost?
.-}
I onlv know of two possible moments I share with
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF-NOT FOR SALE
another ghost and that I still have access to—the picnic table scene, and the Ouija board one. I consider both. What if I'm wrong? What if I can't communicate with a ghost? Better to have that happen when I'm expecting to encounter Tammy than Gabe. If it doesn't work, I'll be less
gathering as o ghost
disappointed. Where's that hair clip?
RETURNING TO THE NIGHT of the Ouija board is completely different from my last spiritual expedition. For one thing, we're in a basement. T h e humidity makes the air heavier, and it's harder for me to move around with this not-exactlycorporeal body. But the big difference? That would be sharing space with another ghost. I mean, a real ghost. Tammy's ghost. I'm watching things from a distance when she startles me by more or less saying, "Thought you were never gonna show up. I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding me." I say "more or less" because it turns ont that ghosts don't actually talk to each other in the same sense that living ili
ri
humans do. I'm not sure what you'd call it. Certainly it's
"Well, yeah. It's not like I've experienced many moments
some form of communication. And clear enough commuai-
where I lost something at the same time some other dead
cation that I know what she's telling me. It's just that there
person I know did. In fact, I've only discovered two other
aren't any, well, words. There're j u s t . . . ideas. I'm not sure
moments like that, and one of them I can't get to anymore.
how to respond to her, because how can you talk to some-
I lound the stupid keys that would take me there."
one when you aren't really talking? Turns out I don't have to worry about it. I'm confused
"Oh. Don't worry," Tammy reassures me. "You'll find more moments like that. You have eternity to do it."
by her "Thought you were never gon na show up" statement
Not exactly reassuring.
(since I've been here what seems like a million times) and
"And the more experience you get hanging out with
think, What's she talking about? She immediately tells me, "You. Coming here. As a spirit. So I could actually have a conversation with you." It's like . . . whatchamacallit—telepathic communication. We're communicating telepathic ally, and whoa . . . not such a t>ood thing. I mean, what if somehow she reads my mind and I'm thinking something that I don't really want her to know?
other spirits, the belter you'll communicate with us." "Well, my only practice so far has been when I was thirteen and talking to you through the Ouija board." "Oh, yeah, sorry about that." "1 hat reminds me. T h e whole thing where you used the Ouija board to apologize? Do you think you could be a little clearer about that? I mean, what are you sorry for?" Neither of us has a body. I know this misty whiteness next to me is Tammy because . . . well, I just do. T h e same
"Oh, in time you'll learn how to keep some ideas back
way I know what she's saying to me. When I ask her that
from other spirits. It's just that you have to learn all over
question, it's like all her whiteness becomes brighter, and I
again how to communicate . . . both the truth and lies."
know this is a form of laughter. I don't find anything here
Great. Like learning to communicate the first time wasn't hard enough?
particularly funny. "Did you kill me? Is that why you're sorry?"
"Doesn't talce all that long. You'll catch on quickly. This
The glow of laughter disappears. She darkens with what
must be your first attempt at communicating with another
seems like . . . regret. Just when I'm thinking I have the
spirit."
answer to my question, she surprises me.
..'
M
"Of course I have regrets. But they aren't about killing
"Of course. I remember it well. Had i car accident."
you. I mean, how could you even think it? . would never kill
"How old were you?"
someone who had once been my friend."
"Thirty-five.''
I don't know if I'm more stunned by the loyalty she's
Whoa . . . she lived to be thirty-five? Something here
expressing or the way she's kind of left open the possibility
doesn't seem fair. The drug dealer lives to thirty-five, and
that she might kill someone who wasn't once her friend. She interrupts my thoughts: "Don't even go there. Of course I wouldn't kill anyone. I might have made my mistakes, but murder was never one of them." "Then what are you sorry for?" "Thinking you ratted me out. I found out later who did it, but before that I thought it was you. And I should have realized you'd never do that to me."
the good girl dies at seventeen? "Hold on. . .. That means you . . . you know things that I don't, things that happened after I died." "Well, yeah. Of course. What do you want to know?" Starting with something safe seems like a good idea. "Did Amber and Lacey actually go to prom with Doug Preston and Scott Turner?" "Why would I know that? I'm not omniscient. I only
"You're right. You had enough trouble :n your life with-
know what I noticed when I was alive. I couldn't have cared
out me adding to it. Not that I ever knew what exactly that
less who thev went to prom with senior year. Didn't pay any
trouble was."
attention."
"And you never will." I can deal with that. I mean, not that I have much choice . . . not having all these mind-reading skills yet that Tammy has. Still, I have to admit that being dead has given me something of an appreciation for mystery. I kind of like that there are things I don't understand.
"But you said . . . I mean, the Ouija board said that they went to prom with those two." Bright white laughter. "Yeah. I was jjst playing a trick on them." "A trick?!" "You have to admit their reactions were kind of funny.
W e l l . . . except for the whole how-I-died thing.
Gotta entertain myself somehow. But senior prom isn't
"Wait, you mean you don't know how you died?" Tammy
really what you want to know about, is it!"
asks me. She glows again. Surprise this time. " \ o u mean you do know how you died?*
"No," I admit. Here goes . . ."Do you know how / died?"
M
Inside the mist, some kind of strange whirling takes place. Indecision. "This isn't a tough question. I mean, you either know
,i.